


A Baghdad Sunrise

by chanderson



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Bottom George, Dogs, Iraq War, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Panic Attacks, implied/referenced PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-10 23:07:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12309780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chanderson/pseuds/chanderson
Summary: Sweetie is only a month old, has a whole life stretched out in front of him—a promise of more years to come. It’s something they’re both thinking but don’t acknowledge. They just let it hang there in the air. Alex smiles at him over the top of Sweetie’s head. George returns the smile, his chest unbearably tight as he tries to memorize how it feels to be so loved.





	A Baghdad Sunrise

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a random little one shot that has random world building and unnecessary angst. Heed the tags; this isn't a happy story. 
> 
> Didn't necessarily define ages but whatever. It doesn't really matter.

George pries the lid off his cappuccino and blows on the still-steaming surface in a futile attempt to cool it down. Forever a little impatient he pops the lid back on and takes a cautionary sip. He recoils and screws his eyes shut as he burns his tongue. He doesn’t really know what he was expecting. 

One of the girls at the table behind him—one of those long tables that’s currently full of giggly sorority girls in matching outfits—shrieks and laughs at something her friend said. A few heads turn; George grits his teeth and tries to focus on his book. The barista behind the counter shouts something, a whirring of a blender fills the air. George hates coffee shops. 

But Alex wanted to meet here, so George is passing the time until he shows up. He’s late, like always. 

George takes another small sip of his cappuccino, pleased to find that it’s finally cooled down a little. He takes a big gulp of it, enjoying the way it warms him up. 

He goes back to reading his book, taking the occasional sip of his drink, and waits. 

Alex finally shows up an impressive 30 minutes late, sweating in his winter coat, face flushed and nose red from the cold. He smiles apologetically and shrugs out of his coat, draping it over the back of the chair. George sits and waits—he’s always waiting so he’s used to it by now—as Alex orders his coffee. A few minutes later he plops down in his seat with a cup and a muffin. 

“Sorry I’m so late,” he says around a bite of the muffin, not bothering to cover his mouth with his hand. George shrugs and absently fiddles with his empty cup, pushing it around with his finger. 

“It’s alright. I got some reading done.” George momentarily stares out the window at the snow swirling to the ground before looking back at Alex. “Did you have a good day?”

Alex nods and swallows the last of his muffin. 

“Yeah it was pretty good.” He takes a swig of his coffee. “What about you?”

George shrugs, waving his hand dismissively. He didn’t have the best day ever, but he’d rather not get into it. 

“It was fine,” he says lightly. Alex narrows his eyes and crosses his arms. He stares at George appraisingly, almost accusatorially, before shaking his head and sighing. 

“Okay, well, that’s good I guess.” Alex sighs and shifts his weight. “You look tired.”

“I’m not.” 

Alex sighs and looks down at the table. George squeezes his fists until his fingernails dig crescents into his palms. He’s such an asshole. 

He knocks his knee against Alex’s under the table. “Hey, I’m sorry. I guess I’ve been a little stressed lately.” 

“Because of your deployment?” 

George winces, feels his dog tags burning a hole into his chest where they’re resting against his sternum, hidden beneath his shirt. 

“Yeah.” He pauses, draws in a deep, sighing breath. “Because of my deployment.” 

“A bunch of fucking bullshit,” Alex spits. “I thought the war was supposed to be over?” He chuckles darkly and runs a hand through his hair. “I guess it never ends, huh?” 

“I’m sorry,” George says because what else is he supposed to say? Alex sighs and reaches across the table to squeeze George’s hand. 

“It’s okay. It’s not your fault.” Alex bites his lip and pulls his hand away, folding it in his lap. “I wish they’d at least tell you how long you’ll be gone.” 

“I already told you eight to ten months—”

“We both know that’s a load of crap,” Alex snaps, cutting him off. “They just tell you that to make it seem less horrible.” 

George looks away, studying the supposedly trendy artwork on the wall—a painting of a bicycle. He fucking hates this stupid, overly-gentrified coffeeshop. 

“I know,” he finally says. “But it’s my job. You knew that before we started this.”

“Doesn’t mean I like it.” Alex drums his fingers on the table, impatiently shifts his weight, huffs a breath. “Look, you wanna get out of here? Lets go home and have some dinner or something.”

“Sure. Sounds good.”George sticks his phone in his pocket. “I hate coffee shops.” 

Alex gives him a funny look and shrugs his coat back on. 

“Then why do you always want to meet at them?” Alex grabs his coffee and keys, stuffing them in his coat pocket. George cocks an eyebrow and tucks his book into his satchel.

“ _You_ always want to meet at them,” he points out. Alex narrows his eyes, physically bristles, opens his mouth to argue. 

“I—”

“I’m not saying that’s a bad thing.” George’s tone is patient, level. Alex huffs and takes a pointed sip of his coffee. 

“Whatever. Lets just get the fuck out of here. I’ve got a fresh bottle of bourbon at home that I’ve been meaning to drink.” 

“It’s only six. Isn’t that a little early to be drinking?” George holds the door open for Alex, shivering at the gust of chilly wind that nips at his nose and cheeks. Beside him, Alex snorts and shivers as he steps outside. 

“It’s never too early to start drinking on a Friday,” he teases. 

George suppresses a smile and stares at the sidewalk as they walk side-by-side, shoulders just barely brushing. After a few minutes of silence, Alex reaches over and grabs George’s hand, lacing their fingers. George smiles. 

“How’s the Conway case going?”

Alex shrugs, his face disinterested. 

“It's alright. I'm helping Jefferson dig through some old emails that could be a possible link.” He squeezes George’s hand and tugs him to the side as a big Saint Bernard barrels down the sidewalk, dragging a stumbling girl desperately clutching a blue leash behind him. Alex laughs and George’s lips quirk up into a smile. 

“We should get a big dog like that,” George muses as they start walking again. “I was at the shelter with Martha the other day—she’s adopting that cat, remember?—and there was the cutest Foxhound puppy there.”

“We’re not getting a dog,” Alex says firmly, posture suddenly closed off. He pulls his hand away and shoves it into his pocket. George frowns, unease coiling in his stomach. 

“Why not? You love animals.” 

“Because you might die and I don’t want to take care of a dog alone.” 

Alex speeds up, kicking up snow as he shoulders past a group of slow-walking tourists. George heaves a sigh and hurries after him, nearly slipping on a patch of ice. He flails his arms and a kind older man helps steady him, clucking his tongue and admonishing him— _“you should be more careful and watch where you’re walking, young man.”_ George just nods, feeling a little odd being called young man, and searches for Alex in the growing post-work crowd. 

He curses under his breath and crosses the street right as the red hand symbol starts flashing and the traffic lights change. He continues to scan the crush of people, sighing in relief once he spots Alex standing under the awning of some Thai place, a cigarette pinched between his thumb and forefinger. 

“What the fuck was that?” George snaps as he stomps up. Alex shrugs and tosses his cigarette to the ground, extinguishing it with the heel of his boot. 

“Sorry.” It doesn’t sound like he means it but George accepts the apology anyway, grabs his hand and squeezes it. 

“It’s okay. I love you.” 

“I love you too.” 

Something warm and pleasant burns in George’s belly as Alex says it, feeling some of the tension between them melting away. He’ll never get tired of hearing Alex say that. 

The fuzzy feeling lasts the last three blocks it takes them to get to their walkup, a charming little pre-war building that George has always loved. 

They stomp their boots off on the rug in the entrance and trudge up the stairs, already shedding their thick winter clothes. Once Alex gets the door open, they shuffle inside and finish pealing off their wet winter clothes. George sighs once he’s down to his jeans and undershirt. Alex goes into the bedroom to change out of his work suit. He comes out a few minutes later with his hair in a messy bun wearing only a pair of boxers and one of George’s Army sweatshirts. He goes into the small kitchen and starts rooting around for a couple of lowball glasses. George goes and flops down on the couch, grunting as he lands on top of a book, the sharp corner digging into his spine. He winces and tugs it out from under him, taking a moment to study the cover. A comprehensive collection of Plato’s works. Classic Alex. 

Alex chuckles as he comes over and plucks the book out of George’s hands, replacing it with a glass of bourbon. 

“Sorry. You know how I am with my books.” 

George just shrugs and takes a sip of his drink, enjoying the way it burns on the way down. Alex sits beside him and turns on some music. George loops his arm around Alex’s shoulders and tugs him down until he’s resting on his chest. 

“I know,” George murmurs as he presses a kiss to the top of Alex’s head, enjoying the sweet, fruity smell of the shampoo in his hair. Alex lets out a content little sigh and idly drinks his bourbon. George sits there, absently listening to whatever pulsing song Alex is playing, trying to memorize the way his body feels against his own. 

Alex finishes his drink and sets it down on the coffee table with a thunk. George isn’t as invested in his drink, doesn’t think the alcohol would end up settling well with the way nerves are twisting in his stomach, accompanied by the anxiety clawing at his throat. 

“Do you want to order some dinner?” 

George blinks, startled out of his thoughts, and nods.

“Yeah sure.” He’s not hungry, knows he won’t be able to eat, but he says yes anyway. Alex would be mad if he said no. 

“Cool. I’m thinking pizza,” he says as he goes into the kitchen and riffles through the drawer stuffed full of take-out menus. He pulls one out after a few more seconds of digging and holds it up, waving it around. “Remember how good their meat lovers pizza was?” He digs his phone out and sets the menu on the counter, flipping it open and trailing his finger down the page. George’s stomach turns at the thought, suddenly regretting agreeing to pizza but nodding anyway. Saying no to Alex isn’t worth the energy sometimes. 

“That sounds great.” George tries to sound enthusiastic, doesn’t quite manage it, but Alex either doesn’t notice or doesn’t mind. He types the number into his phone and cradles it against his shoulder as he taps his fingers on the counter. 

He rattles off their order and shoves the menu back into the drawer. 

“The food’ll be here in around 20 minutes.” He plops back down on the couch and grabs the remote. George tries not to shudder when he turns the news on and Anderson Cooper’s boyishly handsome face pops up, face shining with sweat as he crouches against a wall and whispers into the camera. The walls around him flash orange as a bomb explodes outside. Dust rains down on his head. His piercing blue eyes are as wide as saucers. 

The rattle of sniper fire pierces the air and George can’t stop the embarrassing little whimper that he lets out through his teeth as he curls in on himself. He’s okay. He’s safe. It’s just the T.V.. He’s _fine._ But his body is screaming at him—fight or flight, bitch, take your pick—and he shudders again.

Then the channel suddenly changes, a quick flash, and Martha Stewart’s smiling face fills the screen. She’s chopping an onion and talking about soup. George’s stomach lurches and he swallows hard, the sound uncomfortably loud in his ears. He closes his eyes as the room spins, lazily rotating around and around. His stomach lurches again. Alex is completely silent beside him. 

“Sorry,” he finally says in a rough voice. “I never know when the triggers are going to—”

“It’s okay,” Alex says quickly, cutting him off. “You don’t have to apologize. I didn’t even—I should’ve changed it as soon as I turned it on.” 

George turns to protest but Alex grabs his bicep and squeezes. “I’m serious. Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault.” He takes a deep breath and reaches up to wipe away a tear George didn’t even realize was rolling down his face. 

“I’m still sorry. I wanted tonight to be nice.” 

“I’m with you; that’s all that matters.” 

“Do you regret it?” George forces his eyes open, stares into Alex’s chocolatey brown ones. His brow creases in confusion and George sighs. “Do you regret us?” 

Alex’s eyes widen in understanding and he shakes his head, opening is mouth to say something, only to be interrupted by the buzzer. He scowls and bounds over to the door, confirms that it’s the pizza guy, and lets him in. He stays standing by the door, waiting. It’s a fast transaction, him shoving the money into the pizza’s guys hand with a muttered “keep the change.” He leaves the pizza in the kitchen, comes back over to the couch and sits down. 

“I could never regret you,” he says reverently and George wants to ask him _why_ when all he’s done is burden him. His deployments, coming home more and more fucked up each time. Alex always asks him why he keeps going, begs him to get out, to retire from service while he’s still young. _“You’ve done enough for this country. This’ll be your third tour. Just stay home and practice law. Do anything you want but please don’t go back to that place.”_

George doesn’t know how to explain it—the feeling of completion he gets when he settles in his uncomfortable bunk at night or goes out on patrols. When he raises his gun and shoots. It’s the only time George has felt useful, less a burden and more an asset. 

He heaves a sigh and leans forward to kiss Alex square on the lips, chaste but not without passion. Alex tastes like his bourbon and George hums in contentment. 

“I love you.” 

He wishes his voice wasn’t so shaky when he says it. 

\---

After several days of pestering him, Alex agrees to go see the dog at the shelter with him. George grins smugly the entire way there, ignoring Alex’s incessant complaining. 

The second the vet puts the dog in Alex’s arms he looks up at George, giving him a look that’s a mix between disbelief and adoration. 

“This is the sweetest dog ever,” he says before presses his lips to the top of the dog’s soft head. George tries to suppress another smug grin as Alex sits down and continues to cradle the dog in his arms, cooing to him about what a sweet boy he is. 

George asks the vet what his name is and she chuckles. 

“Sweet Lips, but he goes by Sweetie. I suppose you could change it but he already responds to it.”

“It’s a great name,” George says. “Wouldn’t dream of changing it.” 

He joins Alex on the floor and ruffles Sweetie’s soft, brown floppy ears, grinning as he playfully nips at George’s fingers. 

They sign the adoption papers and make a run to Petsmart, buying a bulky bag of food, several toys, a leash, a fluffy bed—a whole cart full of stuff that Alex keeps adding to as he holds Sweetie in his arms. 

“George look at this toy! It’s a little squeaky hotdog. C’mon, Sweetie _has to have_ this toy.” 

George rolls his eyes and nods, enjoying the little whoop Alex lets out as he adds the toy to the pile. 

A couple hours later, they’re both stretched out on the floor playing with Sweetie, rolling a ball and grinning as he runs back-and-forth between them. 

“You’re such a good boy, Sweetie,” Alex croons and George smiles fondly. 

Sweetie is only a month old, has a whole life stretched out in front of him—a promise of more years to come. It’s something they’re both thinking but don’t acknowledge. They just let it hang there in the air. Alex smiles at him over the top of Sweetie’s head. George returns the smile, his chest unbearably tight as he tries to memorize how it feels to be so loved. 

That night they have sex, tender and leisurely and gentle. Alex slides in and out of him in smooth, fluid motions, whispering sweet words into his ear the whole time. George presses his face into Alex shoulder as he fucks him, trying to hide the tears streaming down his face. 

When he comes Alex croons about how sweet and wonderful and good he is. George just kisses him, shuddering when his cock pulses inside him. 

Later, after they’re both cleaned up and cozy in bed with Sweetie by their feet, George presses his face into his pillow to muffle his sobs as Alex drifts off to sleep.

His deployment is in two weeks. 

\---

George nods as the airline worker behind the counter hands him his plane ticket and thanks him for his service, eyeing his uniform as he hoists his backpack onto his back. He smiles faintly and moves out of line. Alex is standing off to the side, staring at the ground with his shoulders hunched. He jumps when George walks up. George frowns and studies his face—the frown and pinched eyes. 

“Hey. You okay?” George whispers as he brushes some of Alex’s hair back. Alex gives him a watery smile and shrugs, an almost-hysterical laugh bubbling up in his throat. 

“I don’t know,” he whispers. George swallows and pulls Alex into a hug. 

“I’ll call you as soon as I can, okay? As soon as I get to the base.”

“Okay.” 

“And I’ll set up a video chat sometime too. I don’t know how service is going to be out there, but I’ll try. I’ll also write you letters if I have to.” 

“Okay.” Alex sniffs and presses his face into George’s chest. “Please be careful.” 

“I always am.” 

“Promise me you’ll come home.” 

“You know I can’t—”

_“George,”_ Alex snaps. “Please.” He pulls out of the hug and fixes George with a stern look. “Even if it’s not true, even if you have to lie, promise me that you’ll come home.” 

George reaches up to rub the tears out of his eyes and nods. 

“Okay.” He takes a steadying breath, tries to control the trembling in his voice. “I promise I’ll come home.” 

Alex lets out a quiet little sob and pulls George back into a hug. 

“Thank you,” he whispers into George’s chest. “I love you so much. Even when you criticize my driving and clean up my stuff without my permission, I still love you. I love you so fucking much that I don’t even care when you leave the cap off the toothpaste and let it get all disgusting and goopy.” Alex laughs breathlessly and sniffs. George coughs and tries to clear his throat.

“When I get home I’ll work on the toothpaste thing. No promises on the cleaning, though.” 

They both crack smiles at that. Alex pulls out of the hug and wipes away the tears rolling down George’s cheeks. George smiles sheepishly, ducks his head. “Sorry; I tried not to cry.” 

“I don’t care.” Alex raises up on his toes and kisses George. “You better hurry up and go through security.” 

“Yeah,” George breathes against Alex’s lips. 

They kiss again. George wonders if it’ll be their last. 

*******

Alex is sitting on the couch reading through a case file, absently scratching Sweetie’s head from his spot curled up in Alex’s lap, when someone hits the buzzer. Alex frowns in confusion—he hasn’t ordered any food—and moves Sweetie off his lap. He punches the button. 

“Hello?” 

“Hello, yes, is this the residence of Alexander Hamilton?” 

A sense of unease coils in Alex’s stomach. 

“Yes. Who is this?” 

“Colonel Benjamin Tallmadge, United States Military. May I come up, Sir?” 

“Oh God.” 

Alex blinks and has to steady himself against the wall as his knees buckle. 

“Sir?”

“Yes you can come up,” Alex whispers as he buzzes him in. 

He takes a deep breath, swallows down the nausea churning in his stomach, tries to suppress a whimper when there’s a knock on his door. 

He reluctantly opens it and shrinks back from the somber soldier standing with his hands behind his back, strikingly handsome in his ceremonial uniform. His facial expression is carefully neutral. 

“Mr. Hamilton, I have been asked to inform you that your boyfriend, Colonel George Washington, has been reported dead in a small village outside Baghdad, Iraq at 0500 on August 24, 2011. He fell in combat trying to defend Iraqi civilians during a surprise, sunrise attack by an armed rebel militia. On the behalf of the Secretary of Defense, I extend to you and your family my deepest sympathy in your great loss.” 

Alex lets out an anguished moan that he barely recognizes as his own. Colonel Tallmadge’s face stays blank and Alex grabs his chest, sucks in a sharp breath, blinks back the black spots dancing across his vision.

“Thank you,” he says breathlessly, breath hitching. Tallmadge nods and steps back. 

“Sorry again for your loss, Sir. You’ll be receiving more information about retrieving Colonel Washington’s body in the coming days.” 

_His body_. 

Alex nods numbly, closes the door and stumbles back over to the couch. Sweetie looks up at him with his big, brown eyes. Alex chokes on a sob and covers his face with his hands. 

Sweetie is 8, almost 9, months old. They didn’t even make it a year. 

Alex thinks about the little black box George had hiding in his underwear drawer: another promise of a life that they’re never going to live. Another broken promise.

George is dead. Alex doesn’t know what he’s going to do. 

Sweetie licks a tear off his chin. 

Alex sobs. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm at a bit of a roadblock with Outshine the Morning (to those of you who read that), but I'll get back into it eventually. Life is busy af. 
> 
> Sorry this is so fucking sad?? It didn't start out that way?? 
> 
> As always, don't 100% know the whole protocol for the military and deployments and all that stuff but I try to do research and make it at least somewhat realistic. Sorry if it's totally shitty. 
> 
> Anyway, comments are always appreciated!


End file.
